


In the Deeps There is a Bird

by Birdbitch



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/pseuds/Birdbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, falling feels a lot like flying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Deeps There is a Bird

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at some point where Dick is Nightwing and after Damian became Robin.

Sometimes, Dick is sure that falling is the closest he’ll get to flying. It’s a thought that started occurring to him back when he was a kid, back when he’d practice the trapeze act with his father and mother watching while he intentionally floated--plummeted--down towards the net. “Dick,” his mother asked, “Why do you keep doing this?” He didn’t have a way to put it into words then, and even now, since he’s actually _been_ flying with Clark, he still doesn’t have a good way to make it make any sense to anyone else. Not surprising, because he doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to anyone else to begin with, but still.

He drops off the building and wishes he could be surprised when Bruce jumps down after him, catches him and shoots a line off to a neighboring building so they can swing onto an abandoned apartment’s fire escape. “I wish you’d give me a little more warning before you did that,” Batman says, voice gruff, still cloaked in the same rough grit as the rest of the city as a disguise. Dick has never bothered with his voice--people all sound the same around here, anyway, and he adopted the Gothamite accent as soon as it became apparent he’d be sticking around for good. Wherever he was, he could mimic the locals. It was as much a defense then as it is now.

Instead of really responding, he grins at Bruce--at Batman, because the glare under the cowl hasn’t softened a bit--and he jumps again. “Live a little, B,” he says, landing on top of a (thankfully) closed dumpster. All he wants is to get back home and they’re closer to the batmobile here than they were two blocks away.

“Nightwing--” That concern is much more Bruce, as he follows him down. The problem with Bruce jumping from heights versus Dick jumping from the same level is that Bruce never, ever figured out how to land without hurting his ankles, and now, he winces as he meets the actual pavement. Not a huge wince, not something that anyone who hadn’t worked with him for years would have caught, but Dick _has_ been working with him for most of their lives, now, or at least their lives together.

“It’s about time for Red Robin’s patrol, isn’t it?” he asks, and he slinks away down Public Alley #27, lonesome as it ever has been, and towards the batmobile. There’s something under the edge of his skin now and it speeds up when it’s clear that Bruce is right behind him. Whatever pain came from landing must have receded, or wasn’t so bad to begin with, because they’re keeping equal pace and it doesn’t seem to bother Bruce all that much at all. They’re almost there--the batmobile being in sight--and Dick turns to look at Bruce. “Does he need any notes?”

“He has his own case he’s working on.”

Not surprising. “The city’s been pretty quiet lately.” Bruce doesn’t respond, but he does unlock the car. It’s a long ride back to the manor, quiet except for the hum of the motors and engine as Bruce pushes past 180 on the country road and the sound of their breathing. Falling feels a lot like flying, Dick thinks again, and he could smack himself in the face because it feels so incredibly corny and never mind the fact that really, he fell in love with Bruce years ago. Ages, even. Damian was barely a twinkle in Talia’s eye back when Dick fell in love. That being said, Bruce probably would have said the same thing about falling in love without a hint of irony because, somehow, Bruce is the least ironic person ever. Dick isn’t sure the concept actually exists to him.

Doesn’t mean that he has to give up his own sense of dignity when it comes to describing his emotions. Circuses are inherently corny, but they’re not _that_ bad.

When they do get back to the cave, Dick doesn’t want to keep his hands to himself, but he does anyway, lasts long enough to do some cool-down stretches and to take a shower--alone--and to remember that the cave is the last place he wants to fool around with anybody. It’s cold and dank and humid, and the summer hasn’t helped any of that at all. Bruce, having finished his shower much quicker than Dick did, is sitting at the enormous computer console, typing up a note on the patrol for anyone on their “team” to access, regardless of any conviction that Tim might not have needed it. There’s not a whole lot to write, if Dick’s being entirely honest. They stopped a robbery, caught a boat of weapons before it was able to ship out, and Gordon’s men took care of the rest because it’s their job to do it in the first place. All in all, a quiet night. No major supervillains, no rogues, nothing.

To be honest, it was one of the nights Dick likes the most.

He waits behind Bruce a little while longer while watching him try to remember any other little thing that might have happened, and when nothing pops up, he gives up. Presses a quick kiss to the top of Bruce’s head and whispers, “I’m going to bed.”

It takes a second, but Bruce follows him up the stairs, meets him right behind the bookcase and gets his hands on his hips before it even closes behind them. “Tell me before you jump next time,” he says, mouth on the back of Dick’s neck. Dick spins to face him, wraps his arms around Bruce’s shoulders.

“And ruin the surprise?”

He knows that Bruce wants to complain more, because the first few times, he did--”What if I wasn’t there to catch you? What if I wasn’t fast enough? What if, what if, what if…”--but at this point, it isn’t worth it. Dick wouldn’t do it if he didn’t know Bruce would catch him, and he wouldn’t do it if he hadn’t been falling his entire life. In some ways, it has everything to do with Bruce, but in others? This has nothing to do with Bruce at all. It hadn’t had anything to do with the net, either. He slips away, sneaks upstairs to the master bedroom and Bruce has to sneak along right behind him, like they’re teenagers trying not to wake up a stern parent (Alfred, despite everything, still needs some sleep every night). The house is huge, but everything seems to echo too loudly, running the risk of waking up someone no matter how quiet they manage to be.

Dick ditches his sweatpants the second he crosses the threshold into the bedroom, loses his shirt somewhere on the way to the bed. The sound of pausing footsteps behind him lets him know that Bruce is doing the same thing, undressing until they’re both bare. He waits for Bruce to press him down against the mattress, waits for the weight of being kissed and held. When he digs his fingers into the muscle of Bruce’s shoulders, he feels knots, but they’ll deal with those later and he’s sure his own back is a mess of them, needing to be worked out and preferably by a professional. _How does a businessman like Bruce Wayne wind up with such a knotted back? Oh, doctor, you don’t understand the stress of running the world’s largest company…_

They’re not so tired tonight that Bruce can’t turn him onto his stomach, his hands and knees, and that he doesn’t press back against the feel of thick, capable fingers, but they’re quiet. Dick feels himself letting out soft noises, low from the back of his throat, and Bruce always, always asks, “Is this alright? Do you want it faster?” but besides that? They’ve had wilder nights, usually had at the penthouse apartment Bruce Wayne keeps in Gotham for appearances, mostly, but also weekend getaways with his long-term partner.

It gives Dick a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach and he stops Bruce so that he can turn over, so that they can face each other, so he can kiss him while he’s getting fucked. He likes falling.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Friendly reminder that writers thrive on comments and it costs you nothing to leave them.


End file.
